a poem something unknown

thinking about
no too much
of too much
of too very much
absolutely

and that was one of the arguments
can anything be absolute

and then I touched
a man in a picture
his face
I actually felt his face and his eyes
and his back which was there in front of me
unclothed
he was a worker
moving, working, hard, sweating
and me there with a pencil moving towards him closer and
yes
beyond the thought and the word and the image and into and there at once I was in a place....

A place where things knobs toes windows opened, carpets being vacumed, babies being fed mushed up carrots and a pigeon flying home

a place where the juices of love and sweat and tears are giving rest to all our occasions of violence and neglect

in the cities where every morning the pollution is sold at some hot dog stand with a bun and some wonderfully spicy
dark deep brown mustard
the color of earth dirt mud God's own constructed art no value no worth beyond worth as the scent of the bun and the pork and the bread and the smell of the coffee also sold nearby
moves to me like a whisper told in a quiet way
are there any other ways to tell secrets
or stories
or to smell the hotdog on a Saturday afternoon.